


Nevermore

by vassilissa



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, F/M, Romance, Second War with Voldemort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 23:53:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5517785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vassilissa/pseuds/vassilissa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's a spitting image of a <i>wall</i>.</p>
<p>She will pretend this is normal. So will he. She'll wait.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nevermore

**Author's Note:**

> The title is inspired from Edgar Allan Poe. Hope you like this, took me way too long to finish it, and I'm not really satisfied with it. I kind of lost it at the end. xx

December 12th,, 2001  
04:13;

 

She's a spitting image of a _wall_.

 

Or of things that are hanging on it, like an ancient portrait or a forgotten stain that got worse with time, or that broken mirror that tells her she's not quite there.

 

Not quite whole. It's patronizing her— that mirror. Saying she could be two different versions of herself.

 

One that disappears all the time, and one who has to live for that.

 

It's almost as if she can cut herself on its smashed pieces, and she thinks she will, like maybe it's inevitable. Then she hears the sound of footsteps, the opening of a door and an entering, bringing cold air and the smell of something sharp—nothingness perhaps; too much of it— and she's very still, in that place of hers, with the forgotten time and the cracks that will never mend.

 

 

 

 

06:29;

 

There's no time between her and him.

 

She will pretend this is normal. So will he. She'll wait.

 

She will think, maybe we should _do_ something, maybe we are needed somewhere, this is _not_ all there is.

 

She will not think, _the time that passes between me and him is the only time that matters_.

 

He is too tired, and she is too careful, and nothing is done.

 

Not even the sun can be seen from where she's standing.

 

 

 

08:26;

 

If Death ever came, he'd look like _him_.

 

All black and sleek and tall and cunning and cold and harsh—

 

Beautiful. Terrible.

 

Pale; grey, platinum—barely is. Barely should be.

 

He looks like he does not _belong_ in a war. He looks like he could be a thing _made for starting_ a war. Something _**important**_. Something that she would pray for in a cathedral, on her knees, eyes closed.

 

He could be made into poems or myths or falling stars.

 

Not facts. Not history.

 

Not _badevilsinistercorrupted_ —

 

 

 

10:37;

 

He does not hold her hand, nor kiss her mouth. He speaks with a voice that is meant to be heard and he kisses her eyelids.

 

He holds her.

 

And she protects herself and he protects her and himself too, and sometimes it's enough and most of the time it isn't.

 

 

  
11:06;

 

He does not sleep. When he does there are nightmares.

 

Sometimes they become very real. Sometimes they choke him.

 

Sometimes they choke her too.

 

She doesn't say anything.

 

 

  
11:31;

 

The broken mirror tells her she's not there.

 

She's not there. _Ha_.

 

What does it know.

 

What will it _ever_ know.

 

 

  
11:35;

 

“Longbottom died,” he says and she isn't quite paying attention to him, isn't quite there in that moment, too focused staring at that fucking _mirror_ , watching her life making a cruel joke out of itself, but she's not _laughing_.

 

That's it. She doesn't _get_ it—the joke. _She.Doesn't_ _.Get.It._

 

She's trying to find what's funny about it.

 

 

  
11:37;

 

Maybe it's funny because it's not _supposed_ to be funny.

 

Maybe because it's _not_.

 

That still doesn't explain the hysteria bubbling up in her throat, ready to burst. Ready to fucking _explode_.

 

Neville is _dead_ ; it finally rests in her ears, in her _mind_. It finally weighs _down_.

 

Neville is dead. Neville is dead. Neville is dead. Neville.Is.Dead. _Neville_ —Ha, would you look at _that_.

 

_Neville's dead_.

 

She _laugh_ _s_.

 

 

  
11:37;

 

“Granger.”

 

“ _Granger_.”

 

“Granger, fucking _stop_ , wh _a_ t _the_ — _ **Hermione**_.”

 

“I bet it was your aunt.” And she makes a sound, likes it's hard to breathe or like it's _too easy_ —She hasn't stopped laughing.

 

Draco closes his eyes. Pretends he can't breathe. Pretends he can't hear _any of it_.

 

“I bet she took her time. Bet she made it real special too— Like with his parents, do you know?” She pauses like she's waiting for him to nod or say that, yes, he _does_ know or no, he doesn't; he absolutely has no _fucking_ idea.

 

He nods very faintly. She continues nevertheless.

 

“The way she and her husband tortured them? Oh, it was _horrible_. It _must_ have been. I think her brother-in-law joined them too. They must have made quite the trio, don't you _think_?”

 

“I wouldn't know,” is what he answers and it is something of a whisper.

 

He shouldn't have said anything. The body count must be a secret.

 

Draco shouldn't have said anything.

 

 

  
12:00;

 

“I'm fine, you know.” She rocks back and forth in her chair, staring at the clock, at the sealed-shut window, at the wall, at that godforsaken mirror.

 

Never at him. Never—

 

“People die. It's okay.”

 

“Granger—”

 

“I mean—It's a war. There will always be victims at war. _Always_. You can't help who it's going to be. You can hope and you can pray, like—all you _want_ , right? You can do that _all_ the time. It's still not going to be enough. It's not going to be how you want it. Makes you forget there's a God sometimes. Makes you forget what's the purpose when it's been _so long_ of the _same_ —So long like _this_ , so long hiding and running and— and _fighting_ —It makes you forget there's anything good at all.” She smiles and it's a soft thing. A sad thing.

 

Draco looks away.

 

 

  


_July 7 th, 2000.  
06:22;_

 

“When I switched sides—” He begins and even though she's not looking at him, he knows she's listening.

 

“When I switched sides, I did it because there was nothing near _him_ anymore for me. So I guess— I did it for _me_ , mostly. But I—

 

“I did it for you, too. I just couldn't bare your _eyes_ —You looked at me differently when you figured out I got the Mark. You looked at me in another way completely when we—When I was making—When you _saw_ it. And so I thought— But it was an easy choice, really. Didn't need much thinking.

 

“My mother— I _knew_ I had to take care of her, but— But then it was _you_ and I—I knew what it meant staying there, staying with him; that _I would lose you_. And it had been _so_ fucking long—I wanted you all these _years_ —There was no _choice_ , I don't think _—_ It seems to never be a matter of choice with me. I never even _get_ — But that's _fine,_ Granger, okay? It's very important that you know that. It's _fine_.”

 

 

 

  
12:22;

 

_You haven't been called today._

 

_I'll be back in a few hours. If I_ don't _—_

 

If you don't, then what? What am I supposed to do with these words?

 

It's not a scream that comes out of her mouth. It's a _sob_.

 

She hasn't cried for so long she does nothing but stare at that ugly-looking painting that hangs from the wall; a promise of an old comfort, something you've looked at again and again, always thinking the same thing.

 

Ugly. Old. _Ugly._

 

Whoever painted it must have had no talent at all. Yet there it hangs.

 

Yet someone thought it beautiful. Or maybe it's an irony.

 

The fact that she'll never know makes Hermione feel uneasy.

 

At least it stops the tears from burning.

 

 

 

  
15:35;

 

She's more of an emergency kind of member for the war.

 

The if-it-all-goes-wrong.

 

The just-in-case, too.

 

That's what she agreed to. That's what she has been doing for the past year, since that terrible fucking _accident_ —

 

She could say she's okay all she wants, but the truth is—

 

She's the only one _left_ from the Golden Trio. She has to be protected. Has to be kept as an emergency so she's some kind of hero at the end of a battle.

 

So they can pretend Harry's not gone for good.

 

Sometimes she likes pretending.

 

 

 

18:31;

 

He's been gone too long. He's usually back by now.

 

She tries not to obsess over it.

 

Her eyes haven't left the clock since two hours ago.

 

 

 

20:00;

 

She has send an owl to the Headquarters. She has to know.

 

Something went wrong.

 

But if that was the case, then she would've been called. She hasn't.

 

This not knowing what's happening, this uncertainty—

 

She sits down.

 

What is going on. What is—

 

_God_.

 

 

 

20:30;

 

Kingsley's owl is quick. Always has been.

 

_The plan failed. Has been altered. No further information. Will owl you first thing. Not needed._

 

The straight-forwardness of the letter is not what she wants right now.

 

She burns holes through the front door.

 

There is something terribly wrong about it.

 

 

 

21:02;

 

When he comes through that damn door—

 

He— He doesn't want to _talk_ to her.

 

There's a shadow of dark clothes moving towards the bedroom and that's it.

 

No glance. Not even a swear word.

 

She knew it was _his_ plan that went wrong today. _His_ strategy.

 

She leaves him alone.

 

 

 

21:18;

 

“Whatever happened, I'm sure it wasn't your fault.”

 

She remains by the door, arms crossed over her chest, eyes careful not to give too much away like the fact she just spent six hours worrying herself to death about him.

 

(She never admits that aloud.)

 

“Yes, well,” He never turns around. Stays head down, elbows resting on his knees. “You weren't there.”

 

Her lungs empty. There's no breath left in her when she says;

 

“Yes, _well_. I _know you_ —you wouldn't let anyone down.”

 

It starts as a chuckle, but it escalates to a slow laugh, a sound that makes her insides turn with sadness and _pity_.

 

“What would you _fucking know_ , huh?” He turns his head to the side, his eyes staring at an empty space at the wall. “Because two people fucking _died_ _because_ of me.”

 

_Do I know them. Who are they? Do I_ know them?

 

“You couldn't possibly _know_ that—”

 

“ _ **No**_ , Granger.” And then he's looking at her, eyes the color of marble and desperate, like they're not there, instead repeating that scene again and again—like it's the only thing he can _see_.

 

“ _No_. Stop trying to make excuses— _I_ caused that. I decided to save my own neck; _I_ decided that. That meant their fucking death. I _knew_ that. I— _I killed them_.”

 

She sat next to him. “No. That's just your guilt talking. I know it's not easy seeing people die. I _know_. I _know_ how it _feels_ — Because you _can_ feel, okay? It's not a _weakness_ , _Draco_.”

 

When she put her hand on his shoulder, he shook it off. She swallowed the rejection.

 

“Leave,” he rasps, and it sounds like his throat is closing up. His fringe is falling over his eyes.

 

She sighs softly and she does. She leaves the room.

 

 

 

22:00;

 

Hands sneak around her waist, making pathways between her breasts, lingering on her shoulders—

 

Her eyelids flutter.

 

“We _can't_ —”

 

“Please,” he whispers in her ear, breath hot. “Just— _Please_.”

 

She lets him. She can't hold it against him.

 

 

 

 

22:13;

 

His eyes are red and incredibly sad; a sadness that wraps around Hermione's bones and squeezes them.

 

Never saying a word, he continues having his way with her and she can only hold on to him tighter.

 

They'll drown together if it comes down to it.

 

She supposes it's going to be a long time before this ends.

 

The only thing she can do is hold on.

 

 

 

 

22:38;

 

“It was Finnegan,” he mumbled against her throat. She froze.

 

“Finnegan and Bulstrode.”

 

 

 

 

22:45;

 

“Someone made _fiendfyre_ — Me and Blaise— We were inside his office—he has a bloody _office_ , what the _fuck_ —and I got the artifacts. We were going to _accio_ our brooms when it reached the upper floor—Blaise said Finnegan, Bulstrode and a couple of others were still downstairs, but I just brushed it off, because they should be perfectly _capable_ of handling themselves, but— They obviously bloody _weren't_ , were they? We left, the fire could not be stopped anyway, we fucking up and left and I knew that bloody git _Seamus_ just wasn't capable of protecting the team, but— But then Blaise said he saw people leaving the Headquarters and I assumed they all escaped, but— So I _**left**_ them. _I left them_.”

 

 

 

 

22:49;

 

“You couldn't know, Draco. I'll keep saying it till you get it through that thick skull of yours. It wasn't your fault. You couldn't possibly _know_.”

 

“I was responsible for tonight's expedition. _Me_. And I screwed it up. It took all this time to get Kingsley to trust me and _now_ —”

 

Hermione sighed, her fingers buried in his blonde locks.

 

“He'll understand. Many of Harry's attacks have caused deaths. The people that died know what they signed up for. It's a _war_ , Draco. You can't save everyone.”

 

He paused. Closed his eyes with the realization.

 

“Of course I can't.”

 

 

 

 

23:00;

 

“I think...” She says finally, underneath him, looking at his Death-Eater Mark, now a faded thing.

 

“I think when all of this is over, all of these deaths won't be in vain. I think they'll be _landmarks_ , they'll be fights _won_. I mean, you got the artifacts, right?”

 

He grunted, burring his head in the crook of her neck.

 

“Exactly.”

 

“I _love_ you.” A ghost of a whisper.

 

She burned all over.

 

 

 

23:01;

 

“ _I love you too_.”


End file.
